


The Man with a Nice Beard

by LothrilZul



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Post-Blind Betrayal, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 21:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20589176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LothrilZul/pseuds/LothrilZul
Summary: When things got out of his control, he decided to find the only person he knew might be able to help him.(This is an older short that's been sitting on my hard disk for long enough. It got a little facelift, but wasn't beta-ed. That's basically how I write. Sorry.)





	The Man with a Nice Beard

He lifted his gaze to the remains of a vertical structure, covered in tarnished white metal plates, standing opposite of a narrow building pointed at it at the other end of the asphalted area. Shacks and dirt plots alternated with one another; food and shelter for the locals. From earlier reports he learned this was a recreational facility once, people came here in their vehicles and watched motion pictures projected to this giant screen from them. The top of screen now doubled as a vantage point, and cables, reflectors and flags were attached to its side. He snickered when he spotted an orange one with the gears, sword and wings on it.

He adjusted his heavy coat, which was way too hot for the summer weather of the Commonwealth with its fur collar, but he got so used to it in the last decade he stuck with it. There was never this hot up on the airship.

“Hope you’re not here for trouble,” an alarmed voice addressed him and he turned to see the speaker. A woman clad in a full set of combat armor and military fatigues, armed with a modified laser rifle glared at him from the nearby guard tower.

“No, of course not,” he said, seriously hoping he managed to produce a friendly tone. He was so used to his commanding attitude that he doubted he can ever speak differently. “I’m looking for an old friend.”

“What was he like?” the guardswoman asked with genuine curiosity. These wastelanders lowered their guards so easily, how could they even survive?

“ _ She _ has blue eyes like the sea, grey hair like silver and snowflakes all over the right side of her face.”

The guard smiled and good-naturedly shook her head. “General Winter lives in Sanctuary,” she told him matter of factly.

“That I heard,” he nodded curtly, hoping to shortcut the conversation already. He had no patience for petty small talk with common settlers. He turned to leave, but forced himself to stop. “Friendly advice. If someone comes looking for her, don’t be so eager to give out her whereabouts.”

She snorted in a manner which made his fists clench, but he knew he had no power here.

“I’m usually not, but you gave an oddly specific description, so I figured I can trust you. How’bout you don’t prove me wrong?” she bit back. “I’m not the last guard between you and her, just so you know.”

“I expected something like that,” he hissed. “That way, right?” 

She nodded and turned to sweep the surrounding forest with her gaze.

The Red Rocket settlement had the same characteristics Starlight had. Mismatched wooden and metallic palisade surrounding it from three sides, windows and doors all opening to an inner yard, rooftops connected by catwalks for guards and neatly wired cables providing electricity. Somewhere a radio was tuned to the station which aired those inane songs, the current song was about mining uranium. How naive the old world was.

“You have some serious nerve coming here,” someone hissed at him. 

He recognized the man leaning to the doorway in the shadow. It was the same mercenary who accompanied his then subordinate to a great number of missions.

“I’m not a feeble man,” he replied proudly. Old habits die hard.“I came with good intentions.” 

The mercenary cracked up and looked him up and down. “Which one is called ‘Good Intentions’, then? Your gatling laser or your combat knife?” he added mock-severely, a hand tapping his gun.

“Neither,” he snarled. After a few seconds of hesitation he placed his above mentioned weapons down to a table, along with a switchblade he pulled out from his boot. All his instincts screamed inside him not to do that, but he forcibly ignored them. He didn’t want to make a bad impression on her after all these years. “Would you keep an eye on them, MacCready?”

The mercenary stepped closer and examined the arsenal with an amused grimace but he left them be, like he was afraid of his ire should he touch any of them. After a few seconds, his face elongated, his jaw dangerously close to fall off, “Wait, you’re serious.”

“I always am,” he said confidently, mildly entertained by the hired gun’s flummoxed expression. How many times he wished he could throw him off his ship, but he didn’t want to get on her bad side. He beckoned towards north where he suspected Sanctuary to be, “Is she home?”

From the flash in his eyes he knew MacCready understood him, but still he hesitated for a long moment. “Yes, they both are.” 

He flashed an alert gaze at him, a complexion he knew all too well. Even under all the hostility, this man was  _ worried  _ for him and the impending confrontation that will surely entail. 

“Good,” he lied without flinching an eye. He was hoping that  _ he  _ might be out on scouting or hunting or scavenging, but it was just his luck. “Let’s get this over with,” he sighed and continued his journey, leaving the perplexed mercenary behind.

Sanctuary was similar to the previous two settlements but it was much bigger, easily a close second to Diamond City in both size and populace. He guessed that around seventy people lived here, most of them farmers, but he saw guards in numbers as well. The perimeter was quite secure in wasteland standards, at least he couldn’t picture that any raider gang in its right mind would consider attacking it. Heavy laser turrets lined the walls, enough on each side to kill a deathclaw in matter of seconds if one would happen to venture out here. 

His eyes were lured away to observe a little child who was obliviously playing in the brook. He stopped and leaned on the railing of the old wooden bridge to watch him and wondered if the water was clean enough for him to do that or his parents had too many RadAways to spare on him. Probably the latter. The wastelanders were careless just like that.

Like he was feeling the gaze on him, the boy suddenly looked up and glared back at him. He smiled back at the boy in the most friendly manner he could manage and turned to continue along his way but before long the boy was pacing beside him.

“I haven’t seen you before, Mister. Are you a merchant? Or looking for work? Where did you came from? What is your name? Do you know anyone here?” he bombarded him with questions, seemingly without need for air. 

The boy was about six year old and had chocolate brown eyes and warm black hair. He did not have to guess twice whose son he was. How many times he saw his father glaring and brooding and glowering with the same eyes, during his service.

“Don’t forget to take a breath sometimes,” he warned him amiably, not bothering to remember all his questions, because he either will get his answers sooner or later or he won’t be around long enough for that to matter. “I’m under the impression that I know your parents, run tell them Arthur is here,” he told him.

The boy was more than happy to scud ahead, and after stating, “I like your beard,” he disappeared into the teeming settlement. This somehow made him smile. He still sported his trademark beard, but he got rid of the long hair a few years ago. It kept getting into his eyes.

Sanctuary was louder than he anticipated, with people hammering and sawing, yelling and whistling, generators buzzing and humming, brahmins mooing and dogs barking, all surrounded with the creaking of the wooden structures everywhere. It was soothing regardless, reminded him to the never resting life onboard the ship. 

He missed the Prydwen. At this moment he thought to understand his former subordinate’s feelings when he exiled him ten years ago and winced at the thought.

He passed by a boy reading a science magazine. A familiar face. He was compelled to stop and greet him, which prompted him to look up. He scanned him with his shrewd, beady eyes and furrowed his pencilfine brows before putting down his reading. The boy had jet black hair, just like his mother before it turned silver during the cryostasis. He once saw it on an old photo.

“Shaun,” he beckoned, and he eloquently returned the gesture. He didn’t change a bit, looked exactly as he remembered him. Still looked like a ten year old, for a decade now. 

Funny how much the world can change in a blink, because it didn’t bother him anymore.

“Elder Maxson, I did not expect to see you again, and certainly not here,” he spoke finally, guarded, eyes prying around like he was searching for someone. He didn’t bother to correct him. “Does Mom know you’re coming?”

“By now, she probably does,” he enunciated with an odd lump in his throat, remembering the younger boy who slightly resembled this synth. They were half-brothers after all, or almost. “I wasn’t planning on coming here, either,” he agreed pensively. 

A familiar pattern of hammering caught his ears, and he was drawn to it. “Excuse me,” he said dismissively. 

Shaun got it. “Of course,” he nodded and returned to his reading. He wondered if his politeness was programmed, doctrinated or part of the original Shaun’s personality.

One of the ruined houses which was structurally intact enough served as a crafting station. He peeked in the window and saw the all familiar form of Danse working on some modification. He didn’t take notion of him yet. He couldn’t decide if that’s the better or not.

An unpleasant tightness knotted his guts. Danse finished what he was doing and headed out of the house. Maxson kept pace with him outside. 

Danse absently glanced at him as he walked out the door, then did a double take, tensing up. He halted his pace and so did Maxson. Icy and muddy eyes silently stared at each other, hobbled by their old resentments and insecurities. After what seemed an eternity, Danse shook his head like he decided there’s nothing to say and turned his back on him as he walked away.

“Daddy, daddy,” a four-year-old form girl called and ran to him. Danse scooped her up and sat her on his side with a fluent, one-armed motion. He looked at her in pure adoration.

“Adam says there’s a mister here with a nice beard,” she burbled and a moment later her eyes locked at him like a targeting computer, “Lookie, he’s there!”

“I know sweetie,” Danse answered, booping her nose, “I saw him too.” 

“How is he not boiling in that _big_ coat?” she asked and Maxson couldn’t stop the smile spreading on his face. The little ones always had good questions. 

“He  _ really _ likes that coat,” he explained to her patiently, playing with his tone a little. He saw him talk with squires numerous times, but this was different. It was something he himself missed from his childhood.

“Let’s find Mom, okay?” he proposed.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be the intro of the second arch of Nuclear Winter, but I changed the story so much I couldn't find place for it in there anymore. I liked how this text turned out, but I really need to let it go, so here you go.


End file.
